Hair of the Dog (9 page)

Chapter Eleven

Elaine had left Dan at the townhouse. Paperwork would keep him busy. She had to run by the college annex in Palm Coast, grocery shop, pick up Dan's dry cleaning, and meet with Scott Ramsey. Dry cleaning? Wasn't that from some other era? There was a “spray and press” cycle on the dryer that did a pretty good job on linen and knits but didn't seem good enough for dressier shirts. The cost was staggering. An already pricy hundred-dollar shirt could rack up another thirty-five dollars in dry cleaning bills before it was six months old. She looked at the ring on her finger. It was his money—his life and way of doing things. Had she been alone too long? She needed to give a little. But hadn't he heard of permanent press?

To get pissy over laundry wasn't like her but she guessed she was feeling the pressure of moving—and not just logistically. A job change as drastic as the one she was considering was monumental. From a lot of angles—type of work, salary, location. But wasn't she already committed? The paperwork was in the mail for the permit to carry—passport picture, written application, a check for one hundred seventeen dollars, certification from the class, and a copy of her fingerprints. Dan was on board with the PI training—maybe more than a little excited to have her in the field.

But now to find out Dan's mother was involved…the added stress wasn't something she'd bargained for. And she needed to buy a car. The check from the insurance company for the Mercedes that was burned in New Mexico had finally come through. But car shopping was one of her five least favorite activities, somewhere on the list after ridding the attic of rats.

Mid-afternoon and she was dragging. A double shot latte was called for…no, needed. She pulled off of Palm Coast Parkway and drove through the Starbucks parking lot. When Scott Ramsey had called and asked her to stop by—three o'clock would work for him—he indicated that he might have information and an assignment. He felt they needed to get started on her school work. Ugh. Could she really do this? Start back to school at forty-six? Or was she just smarting over flunking her first assignment? She really hadn't found out anything concrete for Dan's mother. Stanley Evers remained an enigma.

Damn. There wasn't a drive-through at this Starbucks and not one parking spot available in the lot out front. No surprise; the coffeehouse was popular. She parked across the street in back, at the end of a large grocery-store parking lot, and walked back to the shop, got the latte, and returned to her car. Total time gone? Maybe five minutes. So, who put the sheet of paper under the wiper blade? The one addressed to her. Who had been watching her? She couldn't control a shiver.

She pulled out the paper, and looked around. There wasn't another car near her. There wasn't a soul in sight—no walkers, no cyclists just a single sheet of white paper with her name at the top and the typed words:

I am not here to hurt you. Stand beside the car and do not get in. I have the information that you want.

“Do as it says.” A gloved hand shot out from under the car and grabbed her ankle. She screamed, jerked her foot back but the hand tethering it didn't let go, and the
venti
latte hit the pavement, cup-top separating and bouncing to the side, steaming liquid splashing on her and the car before rolling underneath. If the cursing was any indication, the coffee had also doused her assailant.

“Who are you?” False bravado but the hand held her anchored.

“You don't need to know. Take your phone out and conduct this conversation as if you were talking on it.”

Elaine reached in her pocket, pulled out the iPhone, and held it to her ear.

“Ready?”

“Yes.”

“It's been reported that you have been seeking information concerning Stanley Evers. Is this correct?”

“Yes.”

“I believe the woman he's living with is a relative?”

“The mother of my fiancé.”

“Have you told her of your findings to date?”

“No.”

“It has to remain that way.”

“Is she in danger?”

“Only if she knows the truth.”

“Which is?”

“I think Scott Ramsey has shared a pretty accurate picture with you. Trust him. He'll give you the particulars.”

“How do you know Mr. Ramsey?”

“He used to work for the Bureau.”

FBI. Was that what he was insinuating? Since when did agents hide under cars to share information? Well, she guessed it wasn't too far-fetched.

“What am I supposed to do?”

“I'm leaving an envelope of material for you with the results of your ‘supposed' research. I want you to give this to Ms. Mahoney. I believe it will answer any questions that she might have.”

“Lies.” It wasn't even a question. Of course, it was a fabrication.

“At this point we need to protect the truth.”

“And my fiancé? What do I tell him?”

“As much or as little as you want. You are in a position to protect his mother—I think he'll see the necessity of that. You might encourage him not to be a hero.”

“That might be difficult.”

“I think you can manage.” A pause, “I'm going to exit on the opposite side of the car. Continue to address your phone. Allow me thirty seconds from the time I release your ankle, then pick up the envelope, unlock the car and get in. It's been a pleasure.”

“Likewise.” Yeah, right. Anger wouldn't get her anywhere and if she was having a problem with cat and mouse tactics now, what would it be like when she was a PI? She was afraid this was just a part of what she'd signed on for. Melodramatics…or maybe it wasn't. The edge of a manila envelope peeked out from under the car. She picked it up, got into the SUV, and locked all the doors. Maybe she needed to rethink her new career choice.

She didn't go back for another latte but looked through the envelope of Stanley Evers facts. Wow, they'd thought of everything—driver's license, passport, utility bills, deed of trust on a house in Palm Coast, death certificate for a Patricia Evers, copy of a 1955 birth certificate…and everything an absolute lie. She was anxious to hear what Scott Ramsey would have to say—former
Agent Ramsey
, that is. Would he own up to having some part in this charade? She started the car; there was only one way to find out.

He met her at the door to his office. Had someone tipped him off that she'd been contacted? He nodded toward the conference room and held the door open for her to go in first. He shut the door, pulled out a chair and took one opposite her.

“I understand that you've had a…um, little encounter?”

“Yes.” She put the envelope on the table and slid it across to him, watched as he removed every piece of paper and then rifled through the stack stopping at the birth certificate and the passport.

“They do a good job.”

“I understand you were a part of that ‘they' at one time?”

“Who told you that? No, let me guess, the same person who handed you this.” He did a sweeping motion over the scattered papers.

“I'd amend that to read the same person who crawled under my car and had me tethered by the ankle.”

Scott looked up sharply, eyes squinting, seemingly to read her face, then a sigh and he slumped against the chair-back. “Yeah, tactics sometimes lack a little in civility.”

“They don't seem to lack in originality and the scare quotient is pretty high.”

“Let me apologize. I've never seen the merit in scaring the innocent. Yes, I was a member of the Bureau—I'll amend that—I'm still a member. I retired, came to Florida, opened shop, and was invited back into service about a year ago. They've let me continue with my business because it's good cover. They needed an extra agent down here and it's worked out. I don't have to tell you that this information is confidential.”

Elaine nodded. “Of course.”

“Are you okay with everything? I mean can you give this info to your mother-in-law and not let it bother your conscience?”

“I think so. I don't suppose I can get a real name—what Stanley Evers is covering up?”

A shake of the head. “It's safer this way.”

“Spare me the ‘it's for the good of your country' lecture.”

“I think you know the importance of pretense here.” He wasn't smiling.

She met his stare and again simply nodded.

“Good girl. You're going to be great at this job.” Finally, an approving smile. “I'd like to make copies.” He indicated the papers in front of him.

“Go ahead.” Elaine was just going to turn everything over to Maggie. Well, after a quick read by her son. She waited while Scott took the packet out to the receptionist.

“There. Now as to why I wanted to meet today. Your first assignment needs to include surveillance. I've just been hired to track the comings and goings of a suspected two-timing wife. I'm sure you realize that this is the type of assignment that makes up over fifty percent of a PI's business.”

“I've been warned.”

“Friday is this woman's mah-jongg night. The husband suspects she's leaving early and meeting someone. Can you be available Friday?”

“Yes.”

“Then meet me here at the office by six.”

“Do I get to know where we're going?”

“The Villages. Remember, nondescript dark clothing, night lens binoculars, and a zoom lens-equipped camera.”

Chapter Twelve

Without physical evidence—that is, the dog in hand—Dan was reluctant to approach Kevin Elliott. He had nothing more concrete than Mel's observation of the fifth race winner at a southern Florida track. A dog acted like it recognized her. Jumped around and wagged its tail. And he had Pete Ellis' word that he'd been asked to tamper with the registration number on one of the five dogs presumed dead, but as Mel had discovered, was still being raced. Of course, he'd promised not to use Pete's name and he'd just bet Pete would deny everything if asked. So, the vet could still laugh in his face and probably would. And if he
were
guilty, then he'd be on the defensive. And Dan didn't need to spook any more possible players. He needed the people behind the theft to continue to race the dogs while not suspecting a thing. He needed to catch people in the act—confiscate a dog with an altered ear tat.

However, this was the third day without Fucher finding any evidence of a dead dog being entered in a race at a Florida track. Had they gone out of state? Possibly. And almost impossible to find out for sure. Collecting recorded races from tracks outside of Florida would require the kind of clout that Dan didn't have. And even if he
could
get disks, who would watch them? The sheer number would be prohibitive. It would take more than a research team of one.

The only upside to his morning was a call from his mother. She and Stanley had found a perfect rental in The Villages—on the golf course like the realtor promised—even some indication that the bungalow-style house might be available for sale at some future date. She was leaving for Chicago at one to close out her apartment, meet with movers, and “make the leap.” Her words, not his. And it would be a “leap.” How long had she been in Chicago? Most of her (however many years she was admitting to) adult life.

And, yes, she'd come back via New Mexico, a couple days with Carolyn, rent a car, pick up Simon, and she'd be home. Calling Florida “home” wasn't lost on Dan. That seemed quick and obviously had a lot to do with moving in with Stanley. He sure hoped Elaine hadn't found out anything definitive to burst Mom's bubble. Stanley better be who he said he was and not who this Scott Ramsey thought he was. Difficult to estimate how long everything would take—too many variables—but Mom was planning to be gone a week, maybe more. Still, Dan was silently relieved to have one fewer woman in his life to worry about.

His day looked relatively easy. He had some odds and ends that need checking—cause of Jackson's death for one; he needed to speak with the coroner. The stab wound seemed self-explanatory but time and cause were pretty basic to the entire investigation. Then there was corroboration of the supposed cremation of the five greyhounds at the animal crematorium in Daytona. Dan had the paperwork. Supposedly Kevin Elliott cremated five dogs. Was he there alone? Was someone in cahoots with him? In fact, was he there at all?

Somehow, and this was really a long shot, he needed samples of the ashes from those five urns on Dixie Halifax's desk. Were the contents, in fact, dog remains? Or just some leftover charred hickory chips from last month's bar-b-que? Important? Yes, Dan would say so. Those ashes, if they could be proved to be from the insured dogs, would be the key to any payout. And could tell them just how many dogs UL&C would need to pay for. Four? Three? None? And he had no idea how he was going to get samples.

***

Dan called ahead and requested an appointment with Dr. Marie Hunt, chief medical examiner, Volusia County Medical Center. He dropped the address of 1360 Indian Lake Road, Daytona, into the Rover's GPS and headed out.

Dr. Hunt was direct, to the point of being abrupt, and let him know that meeting with him was somewhat of an imposition. After a tepid handshake, she turned and motioned for him to follow her.

“Let's go back to the lab. We're holding the body until the toxicology report is back, but, between us? I expect levels to far exceed BAC legal limits. And I would guess that based on other physical characteristics, Mr. Sanchez was not new to…what is it kids say? Partying down.”

“That's the rumor, anyway.”

Dr. Hunt stepped to the side of the gurney, unzipped the body bag and pulled back the flap covering the face. “Here he is. There were a few anomalies. Such as this one.” She pointed to the corpse's forehead.

Dan moved to the head of the table. “I don't understand. What in the world…is that a word?” He pointed to a series of cuts starting in the hairline above the left ear and ending just above the right. Edema and clotting blood had erased any crispness to the penmanship.

“Those scratchings formed the word ‘thief.' Misspelled, I might add—e before i. But still a message for someone.”

“Was the etching done before or after he was stabbed?”

“Oh, definitely before the stabbing but well after he was dead.”

“Wait. The stabbing wasn't the cause of death?”

“No. I thought you knew. Cause of death was alcohol poisoning. And I don't think we're talking accidental ingestion, like I'll bet someone wants us to believe. There is every indication that Mr. Sanchez either willingly, or more probably unwillingly, took part in what I believe is called “butt chugging.”

“Do I even want to know what that is?”

“Probably not. Do you have children, Mr. Mahoney? Perhaps, college-aged?”

“No.”

“I thought that you might have heard of an incident at a popular Southern college a couple years back. Frat house shenanigans that turned lethal. Or perhaps the sherry enema murder—wife in Texas does in her husband—I think that was in 2004.”

“This all comes under ‘fact is stranger than fiction,' right?”

“So true. I believe Mr. Sanchez could have been ‘murdered' by two different people—one who got the job done, and one who only thought he or she had succeeded. There is evidence in the rectal area to suggest the tubing of alcohol directly into the colon. Alcohol ingested in this manner has nowhere to go other than directly into the intestines. An overdose can be administered in a short period of time. The body is then left where it will look like an accidental death. In this case with a known history of drinking to excess, the murderer thought he or she would easily get away with it. I doubt the murderer thought someone would use the deceased's face as a billboard. For some reason the murderer returned and found the defaced corpse and decided to use a knife and hope to implicate someone else. Or yet a third person decided to get in on the act.”

“You think
at least
two people were involved—but maybe three? One to orchestrate the perfect murder and then another person marked the body—yet maybe a third stuck a knife in his back.”

“I do.”

That would explain the moving of the body. Hadn't Fucher claimed that he'd first stumbled over the body in the doorway, removed the knife, left it beside the body and went to corral the dogs only to return to an empty space sans body and knife? Was the murderer the one who started a fire? Or did the fire cover up something else? Was he being wrong linking the two? Obviously if Fucher was going to be implicated, the body couldn't burn. It had to be removed and then brought back. Someone carving “thief” on Jackson's forehead caused a lot of extra work for his murderer.

“It's my opinion because of the angle of the knife as it entered the body that someone standing over him when he was on the floor did the stabbing.”

“You're saying that someone found him lying facedown in the hallway, assumed he was drunk, and took the opportunity to do what he or she thought would kill him.” Dan wasn't prepared for any of this. What happened to cut and dried, plain ol' straightforward gunshot or stabbing?

“Precisely, but the deed had already been done. I do have pictures. You can see from these that the word is meant to be ‘thief.'” Dr. Hunt picked up a manila envelope from a desk in the corner, pulled out a couple eight and a half by eleven, black-and-white glossies and handed them to Dan.

The lopsided “Theif,” mostly in caps, stood out sharply against the pale skin of the corpse. Truly a kindergarten level of penmanship, but writing something on human flesh couldn't be easy. “May I?” Dr. Hunt nodded and Dan slipped the rest of the photos from the envelope, pulled one from the pile, and studied it. “So this is the knife.” Fucher was correct; it was a kitchen knife, actually more like a carving knife—wide blade, pointed end, solid handle—too big and unwieldy to carry around. Not the tool of a professional killer. But didn't that only further implicate Fucher?

“But this may be just as important. See these bruises? Here and here? Our Mr. Sanchez suffered quite a beating before he died. Badly bruised ribs and another discoloration in the groin. Not something that would kill him but would probably render him helpless. It's even possible his assailant attacked him while he was dying.”

“Any idea how these were administered? Blunt instrument? Bare knuckles?”

“I believe they were received while he was on the floor. Boots, possibly steel-toed, would be my educated guess.”

“Time of death?”

“Somewhere around one a.m.”

More surprises. Wouldn't be the first time that what looked like one thing turned out to be another. But could Fucher have slept through a beating like this? Wouldn't Sanchez have yelled bloody murder? A person just didn't acquiesce to being carved up and stomped on. But maybe more importantly, did he think Fucher could have done something like this? Know enough about administering alcohol to poison a person, let alone carve up his forehead, ferociously beat him, and
then
stab him? This whole scenario was slipping into the realm of complete make-believe.

“Do you think he was killed on the premises or killed somewhere else and brought to the track?”

“Difficult to know. The fire erased any evidence that could help us there.”

“Anything else I should know?” Might as well get all the surprises out on the table at the same time.

“This, possibly.” Dr. Hunt unzipped the bag and with latex gloves firmly in place, brought the left leg out from its covering. “See the markings on the ankle? He had been rather tightly bound and tethered to something. And the toes on both feet…” She pulled the left foot out and held it next to the right, “Crushed.”

Dan leaned in to look at the mangled toes, blue-black now, nails broken and split and the surrounding flesh more like pulp. “Any idea…?”

“Consistent with being run over by a car, but just the toes doesn't make sense. Of course, I've seen the bodies of drunks come through here with amazing injuries.”

“This could mean that he'd been held somewhere for some indefinite period of time—probably not at the track.” No wonder Fucher didn't hear anything. “Was the carving on the forehead done with the same knife as the one that had been stuck in his back?”

“No, the knife wound to the back was done by something large, a kitchen instrument, meat carver's tool—wide blade, ornate guard at the end of the handle. Obviously expensive.” Dr. Hunt pointed to the photo that Dan had separated from the pile. “This is the knife found beside the body. It matches the entry wound and was rammed into the body with such force that the guard”—she indicated two brass knobs at the base of the blade—“left bruises.”

“And your best guess as to what kind of instrument was used on his forehead?”

“Something as simple as a pocketknife or the sharpened point of a nail.”

“Any ideas as to why the corpse was marked in this way?”

“Almost always it's meant to be seen—a message sent. The Mafia and gangs are known for this sort of thing—it's a warning to others. In this case it would seem to indicate Mr. Sanchez took something that wasn't his. I saw more of this up north when I interned in New Jersey.”

“I can imagine. I may be naïve, but I don't see Palm Coast or even Daytona as a hotbed for organized crime.”

“It's not Vegas. Still, any sort of gambling seems to invite that element.”

Hmmm. Dan stood corrected. This was food for thought and certainly broadened the spectrum of reasons for wanting Jackson dead—more or less ruled out a crime of passion just because he'd threatened to fire someone. The “thief” said it all and it made no sense that Fucher would have needed to broadcast that accusation…unless Jackson had borrowed money from Fucher and hadn't paid it back. Damn. Someone could make a case out of that. It didn't exonerate Fucher—it tightened the noose if Jackson was on the list of recipients. He needed to check with Roger Carter. Still, if Fucher only
thought
he was killing Jackson…how did that change his case?

“One last question. Both Fucher, the man who was arrested for his murder, and the cop who arrested him talked about there being blood. I think it was referred to as a ‘pool' with some mention of blood on Fucher's clothes. This picture of the knife appears to only show traces on the blade. I don't see anything that would have caused a pool or any spatter unless it was the stab wound. Yet, if your time of death is correct, the blood would have already settled away from the knife entry.”

“Exactly. There would not have been any large amounts of blood, a spray or even scattered droplets.”

“When will your report be completed?”

“As I said, I'm just waiting on the toxicology report.”

Dan walked back to his car and decided to give Roger Carter a heads-up. Could a good lawyer get the charges against Fucher thrown out based on the evidence Dan had just seen? He sure hoped so. But just when he was feeling good about Fucher's chances of beating a false rap, evidence that might exonerate him appeared to indict him. Roger Carter burst his bubble. Sure enough, Jackson Sanchez had borrowed twenty-five thousand dollars. The debt was eighteen months old and even though the contract had been drawn up for payments of one hundred dollars to begin immediately on a monthly basis, no payments had been made. Ever. Not one cent paid back. Lawyers for the opposing team would have a field day with that. And on the surface it looked like a good reason for murder—complete with a carved out warning for others. And the misspelling of “thief.” Dan could only imagine that Fucher's spelling skills might not be the best.